Not Your Average Horse
by KickUpSomeDust
Summary: This is the story of Firefoot, Eomer's unusual horse. He dosen't like people very much, and almost everyone thinks he is crazy. Please R
1. Prologe

Disclaimer: I don't own it. I really don't. There is not a single original character in this yet. It all belongs to Tolkien. I'm not making any money from it, just entertainment. You know the drill.

Prologue

I am not your average person. In fact, I am not even a person, in the literal definition of the word. I am, physically at least, a horse. My brain however is not that of a typical equine. You see, I am caught between two worlds, two ways of thinking, two separate existences, for, my brain is more human than horse. I know not why I think different than my herd mates, why I alone could, even from an early age, understand the human race, not when men skilled in the art of horsemanship used their bodies to speak the horse-tongue, but when they spoke in their own tongue with one another. If horses like me ever existed, men never learned of them, and the horses would not remember. Horses do not concern themselves with the past, save that in the past _this _happened and it was good, or _that_ happened and it was bad, or _here_ is a good place to find water. They do not remember who did what, or why or when; it is not in their natures. But, I am getting ahead of myself. I am Firefoot, and this is my story.  
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(a/n: there should be a break here, but for the life of me I can't get it to work. oh well) _

I was born in the stables of Edoras, sometime before the War of the Ring, as you humans call it. I was born in a large foaling stall bedded with straw, as most foals are. My first experience with men came within a few hours of my birth, in the time all foals have where they know no fear, so I did not come to fear men at that time.

When a foal is strong enough, they will be turned out in a large field with all the other mares and their offspring. In this field there were also older mares that had not foaled that year, and all sorts of other horses that, for whatever reason, were not kept in the stables and surrounding paddocks. This created a herd setting, wonderful in the upbringing of young foals. Because, young horses must learn how to act like a horse, they are not born knowing how to act in a herd setting. A horse raised away from other horses will be almost impossible for the humans to train, simply because humans learn to have a crude understanding of the horse language, and how can a human teach a horse that doesn't know the language the lesson is in. I too, learned the language of horses, but found it lacking. Was there no way to tell my dam of the extra juicy clump of grass I had just found? Or to ask how she managed to execute that perfect roll-back? 1 Nevertheless, I managed to live and grow in this herd setting.

I did not realize how very different I was, and how comparatively unintelligent the other foals my own age were until it was time to start training at the age of two years old. One day a shrill whistle blew as one often did, and just like every other time, the whole herd stopped what they where doing and ran toward the sound. I was bored with this routine; nothing interesting ever seemed to happen. But this time was different.

This time, the men separated the two year olds from the rest of the herd. There were a good many two year olds, so although every one was nervous, not a one panicked. They had mostly clumped together in the big field anyway. But I was busy thinking. Had the men ever taken a group way like this before? I couldn't remember. No, wait… yes they had done this before. Last year when I was just a yearling, too upset over being weaned to notice much, they had taken _that_ year's two year olds, who would be three this year. And they hadn't come back. When this though came to me, I panicked. Something terrible could have happened to those horses. I remember never having been frightened of men before, but perhaps they didn't eat newborns. Perhaps they waited until they were older. Bigger. That was the first un-horse like thought I had that day

I threw my head up in the air, and smelt strange things. I performed that roll-back I had worked so hard to master, and ran back the way we had come, screaming to my brethren. _Run, hoof-brothers, hoof-sisters! They took our older siblings from us last year, and now they want to serve us the same horrible fate! Run back to our uncles and aunts, back to our dams and their new foals! Run back to the herd!_

My screams served to excite my peers, but not being able to understand words, only emotions and other such things, they only realized my panic. True to form they ran straight away from what had already made them nervous. That is to say, they ran away from the humans and ended up galloping in the direction the men had been herding us anyway. I, however, ran straight at the men with the intention of going back into the big field. I knew that it would be near impossible for the men to catch me in the big field, if I was determined to stay away from them. It was the second un-horse like thought had entered my head that day. Surprised, the men stood firm but did not have time to prepare themselves for my strange behavior. I bolted straight through the line, and returned to the field.

Unfortunately, the wooden obstacle that I had never bothered to think about before now blocked my escaped. I threw myself at the barrier, but made no made little headway. I did, however, succeed in bruising my forelegs. Soon I was surrounded by men. I lashed out with my hooves. I could hear the humans talking amongst themselves, or were they talking to me? Yes they were. "Easy", they were saying. "Calm down," they crooned. I stopped listening. Time flowed together in an endless stream of terror. The humans did not do any thing but encircle me, waiting. It was not in vain. Eventually, I stopped and stood, I could do nothing. I allowed myself to be herded off somewhere, to exhausted to care anymore. My life would never be the same again.

1 For those of you who don't know, a roll-back is a move used in western riding, where the horse, from a full canter or gallop, almost sits down, stops, pivots around 180° and takes off in the opposite direction. Yes, horses will do it on their own out in the pasture, if they are built the right way and it is easy for them.


	2. Hatred

Hatred

I found myself in a pen, with high walls, so high that I could not see over them, even if I reared so high I almost teetered backwards. The pen had no corners; it was a perfect circle, perhaps twelve big trot strides across. 1 The walls were not solid, but sturdy, and there was a breeze coming in though the openings between the boards. As I investigated my surroundings, I found a tub of water and a pile of hay. I could smell men near by, but I could not see them. My hoofed friends, with the fear of men that I now had, would have been nervous for hours or days. I was smarted than them. I knew that the men could not touch me if they weren't actually in there with me. So I drank water, and munched on the grass hay, but I always kept an eye and ear on the look out. I absently wondered what had happened to my herd mates. I called to them, and received distant whinnies in response.

I could spend any amount of time describing what I went through, what I thought, and how I managed to convince the horsemen that I was insane, un-trainable, and dangerous, even though I wasn't. Oh, I suppose that is incorrect. I wasn't insane, but I was dangerous. I reacted to all the training methods with anger and hatred, convinced that even if the humans weren't going to kill me and put me on the table of this King Théoden they kept talking about, they were just trying to fool me into giving up my independence and freedom. I felt like a slave. But I was still rather young and insolent. If I _had_ been human, I would have hated my parents because they told me what to do….

But that isn't the point; the point is that I earned the name 'Firefoot' because I never tolerated a particular human long enough for them to touch me with out sedatives. I would charge, kick, bite, or some combination of the above. To their credit, the humans tried their hardest. They tried every method in the book short of violence. They knew a horse that had to be beaten to tolerate humans was not a horse they wanted to trust their lives to in battle. Needless to say, if I were a normal horse that thought like horse, their methods would have produced a willing, smart, trustworthy mount. But, as you will no doubt get tired of hearing, I am _not_ a normal horse.

One day, after having successfully convinced what could have been the hundredth trainer that he really, _really_ didn't want anything to do with me the week before, I heard them coming again with yet another trainer. I was surprised that they found someone so quickly. After all, almost every person around the capital, and some from farther away, who had been around horses in the last 50 years had taken a stab at me. The record for the longest stay was 64 days. My personal best was when I managed to make an apprentice runaway in sixty seconds flat. Anyways, they were rapidly running out of people who were willing to risk working with me when I wasn't heavily drugged. Last time it had taken a month to find a replacement.

"Lord Éomer, yer this un's last hope," said the particularly brave stable boy who could toss me hay and give me water without getting badly injured.

"How's that, boy?" asked the youth who had to be Lord Éomer. He looked no more than seventeen or eighteen.

"If ye can't fix 'im, they'll 'ave to kill 'im, 'cause ain't nobody kin teach 'im nufin', an' he jest takin' up space an' eatin' food, an' he aint even happy," the boy replied.

It took Éomer a while took work that one out. When he did, he said, "Well then! We shall just have to see what we can do with him, then." With that, he entered walked to the fence of my round pen. "How are you doing, Firefoot?"

Still mulling over the fact that maybe the humans didn't necessarily want to wash their hands of me, I missed the chance to land a solid kick on the fence near his head, my standard greeting. Unfortunately, he decided it was safe to enter, despite the small boy's avid protests. As soon as he finished climbing through the fence and reached the center, I began to rear and scream and buck around him. _Stupid, stupid human! You are all the same! Take me from my herd; expect me to bend to your will! I should kill you all. Stupid, ignorant, not one of you understands!_

"I know you think we are all stupid, and you miss the open fields, but really, violence isn't the answer," Éomer said, speaking as one who talks to horses as he would a man just because he is in the habit. I faltered. Had he _understood _me? No one ever understood me.

_You men, fight wars when you are wronged! You kill, you maim, and you used violence!_

Éomer continued, "Yes I know humans go off and fight wars, but we really don't like to. We only fight for our survival. You, on the other hand, fight just because you have an unexplainable hatred of Mankind."

At this point, I was beginning to strongly suspect that something enabled him to understand me, or at least, understand concepts. He probably didn't realize they were coming from me, they probably felt like they came from his own mind, or perhaps from my body language, not my head but still, I resolved to see where this would go. Hopefully I could teach him to listen, not just talk as men are prone to doing.

1 Going on Firefoot being a fairly large horse, his big trot strides would be about a maximum of five feet, and he is young and undeveloped, so he probably actually has smaller strides. He is in a round pen of about 60ft, or about 18.2 meters. And before some natural horsemanship person gets after me about them not having round pens, round pens are not new. The ancient Greeks had them, I think. The Romans defiantly had round pens. Quite useful things when it comes to working with horses….


	3. Breakthough

Disclaimer: I don't remember if I did one of these thing or not yet. In case I didn't here it is: I don't own anything. I don't even own Firefoot. The only original characters so far have been the stable boy and (in this chapter) the farrier. Don't sue.

There is a saying in the horse world; "A good trainer can hear his horse speak, a great trainer can hear his horse whisper. But a bad trainer can't hear his horse at all, no matter how loudly it screams at him."

By those standards, Éomer was somewhat better than bad. Of course, Éomer was better than any of his predecessors, perhaps because he was younger and his mind was slightly more open to strange things like talking horses. Perhaps the others had heard me and it was pushed from their minds without thinking about it, as a person in the city will eventually learn to ignore most sounds without even really hearing them. But either way, I feel obligated to remind the reader (or listener, as the case may be) that if I was a normal horse, not matter how traumatized, they would have been excellent trainers. If I had been raised away from other horses and did not speak horse, they would have been able to put me in with other horses, who would have taught me. But they were treating me like a horse and I wanted to be treated like a human. In hindsight, I can not blame them.

Éomer spent the vast majority of his waking hours, and some of his nights in or near my pen for the next two weeks. He was stubborn, I'll give him that. Just because I hoped to make him understand me, didn't necessarily mean that I liked him, or that I was going to be sweet and mushy about it either. Initially, Éomer really didn't understand that anything was coming from me. Then, when he _did_ understand, he just thought he was reading my body language. I quickly grew very frustrated, as he made no major breakthroughs like the one on the first day.

I treated Éomer almost exactly the same as everybody else. I charged, reared, and screamed out all of my frustration at him. The only exception was that I didn't actually _try_ to hurt him. I pretended to bite, but always missed. I had good aim, still do in fact, and could always chomp down half an inch from flesh. I was getting very annoyed and frustrated with the man, who was not making any noticeable progress on communication. It had only been two weeks, and I couldn't realistically expect much, but still, I have never been very patient.

Anyway, I was very overdue to get my hooves trimmed and Éomer was occupied with something or another that he had been neglecting recently when the farrier, the stable boys, and everyone else who was available showed up at my pen armed with basic farrier tools, strong sedatives, and rope. The routine was a familiar one. I would run around like a maniac, screaming my head off, while simultaneously kicking, charging, biting, and otherwise threatening the lives of the humans. They would either climb the fence or stand in the middle while trying to figure out the best way to get the drugs into me so they could trim my feet. It took longer each time.

After approximately 2 ½ hours of me screaming insults at them, which of course they did not hear, I was beginning to tire. Alright I was fairly exhausted and moving slower than usual. This was probably how somebody managed to get a rope around my neck, which was then secured to a post so it could be gradually shortened until someone got close enough to administer the sedatives.

(B)(B)(B)(B)(B)(B)(B)(B)(B)(B)

Éomer had been so absorbed in his new project that he had been neglecting most of his other duties, including weapons practice. Because he hadn't put in a decent amount of time into his sword or spear work lately, he tried to ignore the feeling of dread coming from the stables all afternoon. After all, it was probably nothing, and neglecting weapons training could get him killed on the battle field some day. But at the end of practice, the feeling increased, and he now recognized fear, hatred, and pain. Without even stopping to change, drink, or take off his sword, he headed to the stables.

What he found was an apparently drugged Firefoot, fighting clumsily against the farrier as he filed off excess hoof growth. Éomer was not sure if the horses was frightened, angry, or both, but despite them small efforts to calm the large animal were unsuccessful. It was obvious that no one wanted to get closer to the horse than absolutely necessary. Éomer was furious.

"Stop, stop, this instant!" he cried, "Could you not let his feet go until more progress had been made? Now we will never get this horse broken!" 1

"My lord," answered the farrier, "I have a very busy schedule, and have to abide by it, unless the horse wants to go another two months on feet that are already overlong and will only become worse."

Éomer sighed, he knew the farrier was right, and he was only doing his job. It was not easy for the farriers and blacksmiths to change horses between them, even if the other one was willing to work with the horse. Éomer was almost certain that this was the only farrier still willing to work on Firefoot. He also knew just how busy the people were as; he had had trouble fitting horses that pulled a shoe in an already busy schedule.

In response to Éomer's query as to which feet had already been trimmed, the man replied that he had just finished the front two when Éomer had arrived. 2 Grateful for the small blessing, he shoed them men away, and assured them that he was sure and was aware that it would be difficult to get the horse drugged enough to finish the job. When they were finally gone, Éomer turned to Firefoot with pity.

"Why to fight men so? You are a smart horse, and though now you have reason to fear men, when came from the field as a three year old you did not have a reason," he asked the horse sadly.

An angry voice sounded in his head _I fight men because I hate them. I do not want them near me, and they think me a dumb beast._

Éomer gasped in disbelief. Could it be? No, it could not. Everyone knew that not even the Mearas could speak! "Surely, I am going mad! I could have sworn that you just talked inside my head!"

_Human, it is I who is insane. I am actually suffering to have you in here._ Despite his aw, Éomer could sense exhaustion, and not a little anger in the horse's voice. Still wondering if perhaps he was going mad, he fetched a pitch fork and cleaned the pen, got the horse fresh hay and water, and went back to the hall to rest and think. Not another word came from the horse, and Éomer was unsure whether to be relived or not.

1 Breaking a horse. This term might need some clarification, as to some people it invokes images of beating a horse until it will let you do anything to it. In reality, 'breaking' really just refers to the process of getting a horse to accept a bridle on its head, a bit in its mouth, and a rider on it back. It is still used today, in things like "green broke," not fully trained, or "dead broke" meaning older well trained babysitter type horse that takes care of its rider and is rarely frazzled. Some people prefer to use the term 'gentle' but I personally find it annoying. Most people are smart enough to know that the vast majority of rides use the term without beating a horse.

2 If you are going to trim a horse, you should always do the front two first, then the back, or the back two first then the front, because it you get interrupted, or have to finish the next day, you won't leave the poor horse with two different feet. Imagine trying to walk around with one foot in flats and the other in platforms.

(a/n) Sorry this took so long. My flash disk has gone missing! And I started this on the downstairs computer, the one I rarely use. BIG mistake. Anyway, I've been a bad author. I wasn't sure if it was okay to tell that little bit from Éomer's point of view or not, but it was easier. If you all don't like it let me know and I won't do it again. If you REALLY don't like it I'll think about rewriting it so that it's all from Firefoot's POV.


	4. The next day

Éomer did not come the next morning. The stable boy was forced to work up the courage to throw some hay into the pen. I believe he was supposed to clean it as well, but the child was too frightened to enter and scurried off the moment he could. To my credit, I did not threaten him in any way, partially because I was very tired and sore from the day before, and partially because I was actually deep in thought. It was an odd feeling, to be thinking rationally for hours on end without feeling the need to express my rage at the race of men.

Éomer had finally understood me, and I him. I wondered what had caused this sudden breakthrough. Had he really opened up his mind, or had my mind in its drugged state enhanced my communication abilities? If that was so, would I be able to talk to him again, and would he understand me? If I could now communicate with a man, I would have to decide if I still hated people. I decided that I did. But did I hate Éomer? I wasn't so sure.

I wondered why he hadn't come this morning. Yesterday he had spent the day catching up on missed work and practices, but he had stopped by in the morning to provide me with fresh hay. Perhaps he was discouraged, convinced that he would make no progress after the events of yesterday. Perhaps he was in some sort of trouble. Maybe he was shaken from hearing me speak and wanted nothing more to do with me. I couldn't really blame him, but I hoped he would come back.

When I realized that perhaps I did like Éomer, or at least was willing to give him half a chance, I was mildly shocked. I had, after all, spent most of my life believing I hated men, and that men hated me.

I was startled from my musing by a sound behind me. I jumped and whirled to face the possible threat, only to find Éomer watching me quietly from the other side of the fence. I wondered how long he had been there. I didn't not like being snuck up on. For a moment we both stood still, each waiting for the other to say or do something.

It was Éomer who first broke the silence. "Firefoot, they tell me you are not acting yourself today," he said. I stared at him, and Éomer continued, "The stable boy claims he managed to put hay in here without you so much as pinning you ears."

I had an urge to tell Éomer that the stable boy lied, and that I had in fact, ripped his arm clean off, but I felt that he would not appreciate it. I waited for Éomer to continue.

"I don't understand you, Firefoot," he continued, "Any other horse would be either acting more violent toward humans, or would have been broken by yesterday's events, and you are neither. And then I could have sworn you spoke, but such a thing is not possible." He shrugged and climbed though the fence. "I do not know what to do with you, Firefoot. You are not like any horse I have ever met before."

_That, Éomer, is because I am not your average horse. I am different,_ I told him.

Éomer visibly jumped. "You, you spoke!" he exclaimed, startled.

_Yes, I have spoken, but it is nothing new. I have been speaking for years. What is new is that you understand me._ Éomer was now gaping unashamedly at me. _Now, are you going to close that mouth of yours, or are you going to say 'I must be going mad' again? _I said, annoyed.

The mouth shut. Clearly trying to pretend that talking to horses were perfectly normal, every day occurrences, (and failing miserably) Éomer eventually worked up the courage to ask, "Can you speak to other people?"

I considered my response carefully. _I don't know weather you are the only two- legger I can speak to, or if others simply cannot hear me,_ I told him. As an after thought I added,_ I do understand all men though._

"You understand the speech of men, yet none could train you! How could this be?" asked Éomer, forgetting, or perhaps not realizing, that this could be insulting.

I felt rage at his ignorance. I have never been very patient. I reared. _It can be, Lord Éomer, _I shouted at him, _because I am not some slave to do man's bidding!_ Poor Éomer was cringing as he attempted to cover his ears, but my voice was in his head, so his hands did not help at all. _I am a _thinking_ horse, which no one has yet realized. I do _not_ take to being ordered about any more than a freeman! I am not 'untrainable' because I do not understand, I am 'untrainable' because I do not like men, because I do not trust men, and because I find the lot of them are simpletons! Not once has any of these 'trainers' dared to think outside the box, or to try something new, something that has not been tried by someone before them!_

Stunned, Éomer stared at me, "Firefoot you hurt my head," he groaned.

_I do not care,_ I told him angrily. The man winced.

"I apologize for my ignorance," he said, once he had recovered, "but perhaps you have not given Men a fair chance. The Men of the Rohirim love their horses almost as their children."

_That may so,_ I told him, _but that does not mean that they respect their horses as thinking beings. A parent may love his child, but as the child grows, the parent may not respect the child's opinions and ideas. It is the lack of respect that has driven many a father and son apart._

Éomer stared at me, lost for words. Evidently, a talking horse was quite a shock for his system, but a talking horse that was (at the very least) as smart as the average man was just a _little_ too much to handle. I waited for him to say something, but he simply stood there, probably trying to work out the situation.

When I tired of waiting, I moved away and went back the scattered remains of my hay and set to work on picking up all the little stems and leaves. There were quite a lot of them, as I had the tendency to spread my hay ration everywhere before eating it. So I really had about half of the hay left. It gave me something to do, as eating hay that was everywhere was more time consuming than eating it out of a nice, neat pile. It was also much more challenging to eat hay in this fashion.

When I snuck a look at Éomer, he was sitting on the ground near the fence, head in his hands, looking rather ill.

Now, I rarely experience headaches, and I did not experience my first one until much later, when Éomer and I were doing some experimenting. But that does not come into the story until later. Éomer on the other hand (or hoof) seemed to develop headaches constantly on a fairly random basis.

At the time, though I had no idea what was wrong with the man, just that he was acting very strangely, completely different from what he was like previously. He was acting different than any other man I had ever encountered, actually. I absently wondered if this was how Éomer felt around me. It was a disturbing thought.

I was beginning to wonder if Éomer was going to move, or just sit there all day, or what he was doing. Then I remembered that I could just ask him. I could have hit myself. If I had hands, that is.

_Ummm… what are you doing?_ I asked.

Éomer looked up. "I am waiting for the herd of horses in my head to stop galloping and calm down," he replied.

Ouch. Maybe I _had_ hurt his head with my screaming. I felt twinge of guilt. _Did I do that?_

"I believe so."

_Sorry about-_

"Don't. Say anything."

I must have hurt his head more than I though when I had lost my temper at him. I hoped it wasn't permanent. It seemed as if my just talking was overloading his brain and making it hurt more. I wondered if I should be doing something, but I had no idea what that something would be.

Eventually he must have started feeling slightly better, or else summed up the energy, because he managed to stand, inform me that he was departing, and walk back towards the hall. I didn't realize it at the time, but Éomer adjusted to me fairly well, much better than I would have done if, say, I found the barn cats suddenly able to converse one morning. Figuring that Éomer would be feeling better in the morning, I went back to my hay.

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So, what do you think? Please leave a review, with your comments, suggestions, complaints, threats….. Well, threats aren't THAT welcome.

For those of you who want longer chapters, I have obliged. This chapter is at least 200 words longer than the last one. (Just the text.) Yes, it isn't THAT much longer, but it IS an improvement, right? I will continue to work on making chapters longer…

I also made an effort to have more paragraphs, with fewer lines per paragraph.


	5. The Beginning

The next day when Éomer came down to my pen, he looked much better, if not completely better, and he greeted me with his normal cheerful self. However, I could detect the strong smell of herbs on him before he even got to the fence, and I knew he wasn't _completely_ well, if he had drugged his headache away.

Éomer performed his usual morning duties in silence, giving me fresh water and hay, and cleaning up the remnants of yesterday's old hay and the various products of digestion that every living thing produces. I didn't say anything, until he returned from dumping the mess wherever it is usually dumped carrying a bucket. From the way he was carrying it, I didn't think it had water in it. But what else would one carry in a bucket?

Puzzled, I stared at him with the most curious expression that I could. _What is in that bucket_, I asked,_ it is not water, but water is the only thing that anyone has ever carried in a bucket._

Éomer winced slightly. His headache defiantly still lingered. Timidly, as if afraid that I would suddenly start screaming in his head, he answered, "Just some brushes, Firefoot. I thought you might like a good scratch and to get some of that dirt off of you."

About to react very loudly and inform Éomer that I never said he could touch me, and several other things that would have probably ruined his poor head for life, I stopped myself. I was, truth be told, very dirty, not having allowed anyone near me in years. Most of the timed I managed to ignore the caked grime, because I was used to it. If there was another horse in with me, we would have groomed each other, but I had no heard mate. I was covered in dried dirt, my mane and tail were extremely knotted, and unless I studiously ignored it, it made me itchy. Rolling can only take you so far in the scratching department. It would be very nice to get a good scratching. On the other hoof, I really didn't like the idea of allowing a human anywhere near me, even if I _did_ like Éomer.

I must have stood there for a long time, debating with myself weather or not I would consent to such a thing, as Éomer became tired of waiting and cautiously climbed into my pen with a stiff brush in hand. Almost against my will, I lowered my head and snorted in acquiescence.

I was tense and ready to kick or flee at any moment, as Éomer slowly approached my shoulder in a daze. Everything seems almost surreal he cautiously reached out, his hand hesitating inches away from my flesh. Until that last moment when his hand came to rest on my shoulder, part of me hadn't really believed he would touch me, and another part of me hadn't though I would actually even let him do so. From the expression on his face, he probably didn't think I would let him, either.

I don't know what I was expecting, but it seemed almost an anticlimax. There was nothing spectacular, outstanding, or 'magical' about it. Just a human and a horse, standing in a round pen on a clear spring morning.

It did feel distinctly odd, though, Éomer's hand as it rested on my shoulder. That soon changed to a very pleasant feeling, as the hand was replaced by a stiff brush. I watched, but did not speak as Éomer scratched my shoulder and back, removing large amounts of dust from my coat in the process. It felt very much like taking a good roll, only without rubbing in grit at the same time. It felt good.

Over the next two weeks, Éomer slowly cleaned every last bit of me. Though 'clean' is not really the best word to use. He really removed dirt, dust and burs from me, applying it all to his own body. At first he would not go near my head or my feet, which was smart of him, because I would not have let him, but somehow near the end of those two weeks, he managed to handle my feet and clean my face. He went after them so casually, that I never though to be alarmed or angry.

During that time, we also began our friendship. I learned about his life, how his parents had died when he was still a child, and how his mother's brother, King Théoden, had adopted Éomer and his younger sister, Éowyn. This was how the two of them came to reside in Edoras, though their home was still officially in the town of Aldburg.

Aldburg, Éomer told me, had been built by Eorl, the very first King of Rohan, and had been the capital until Eorl's son Brego had moved it to Edoras. Whereupon King Brego's oldest son had gotten himself killed or lost or something, leaving the second son to inherit the throne and the third son living in Aldburg. This was all significant because it was from this third son that Éomer was descended. Or something. It didn't seem to matter much to me.

_Why does all that history matter? _I asked him. _Surely the goings on of you ancestors have little to do with the world today. They do not exist anymore._

Éomer only laughed, saying that it was not something that could be explained. I would either one day come to understand or I would not. I was not so sure, but let it stand as something I just could not understand.

Through my conversations with Éomer I began to realize that up until this point in my life I had been bored. I think that I never noticed before because I was too busy hating the world, but once I had someone else to focus my attention on someone else being _that_ angry just seemed like a waste of effort. Not that I wasn't still extremely temperamental, but at trying to attack every human that walked by just didn't seem entertaining enough to be worth the effort.

The entertainment value might have been gone, but I still had my reputation to maintain. This was why Éomer was currently replacing a board in the fence. No one else seemed to like me enough to want to take down the broken board and put up a new one while I was in the vicinity. It had something to do with the fact that I had already demonstrated the ability to kick and snap the board, so obviously I could to the same to anyone trying to fix said board. The stable boy who had been trying to bribe me with an apple would probably not be back any time soon.

Éomer did not think my violent tendencies were something to be encouraged, however. He seemed almost exasperated. "Firefoot, why must you be so, so _vicious_ to everybody?" he asked me.

If I was human, I would have shrugged my shoulders. As it was, I replied with a sullen silence. I did not need to explain myself to anybody.

When Éomer realized that I was not going to answer, he continued, unfazed. "You hate all Men. Except for me. Why break me like you broke this board? You would never have to deal with my annoying self again," he told me.

Because you are interesting to me. Because I actually think I might like your company. Because you can hear me, and if you can hear me, then I am not crazy. But of course I only told him, _You are not _quite_ as stupid as the rest of humanity seems to be._

"Why, thank you," he replied. He smiled, but it was not the smile of someone pleased with a compliment, nor was it a false smile; it was the smile of someone who was pleased about something they has learned, or observed. It was the smile of someone forming and idea in their head.

I did not ask Éomer what theories he was forming about me. I was curious, but convinced myself that I did not care one bit what Éomer thought of me. It was a lie, but it would have to do.

Later that day he surprised me by coming back to see me as the sun was setting. _What?_

"I need you to do me a favor."

_Ha! What sort of favor?_ Me, doing some one a favor? The idea was almost laughable. Just a month ago it would have be ludicrous.

"Orcs have been spotted north of here. I will be riding out with Theodred, my cousin, and his men at dawn. We may only be gone for a few days, it may be longer. I need you to behave while I am gone." He sounded agitated.

I glared at him.

"You do not have to be friendly, or even polite! I am just asking that you keep your temper under control. No killing, no maiming, no breaking things. My sister and the stable master have agreed to see that you are unbothered, but someone will still have to come and feed you and clean up. Please, Firefoot?"

I thought about it. It seemed very important to Éomer. _If it makes you feel better, all right._ I tried my best to sound grumpy and reluctant

"Thank you. It is one less thing to worry about." He raised his hand, as if he were going to scratch my head. Then he thought better of it and walked away.

I almost wished he hadn't.

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Ummm.... Hi

Sorry for the leaving you guys hanging so long.

But I'm back to work on this story, so please leave a review!


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